


Ice Fishing

by masondixon



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Erotica, F/M, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23516959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masondixon/pseuds/masondixon
Summary: When Red whisks Liz away to an alpine chalet for a long weekend, she tries to appreciate the R&R. A late night confession plunges her into an unfamiliar role as Red's lover. Can she overcome inexperience, doubt, and confusion to finally explore her forbidden desire?
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen & Raymond Reddington, Elizabeth Keen/Raymond Reddington, Raymond Reddington & Dembe Zuma
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	1. Utopia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lured by the promise of relaxation, nagging thoughts prevent Liz from enjoying her rare vacation with Raymond.

“There’s a fine line between fishing  
and standing on the shore  
looking like an idiot”

— Red quoting Steven Wright the comedian

Chapter One: Utopia

Red arranged a cashmere scarf around his freshly-shaved neck and tugged a chocolate brown fedora over his prodigious head. Liz huffed, cast one last glance at her shuttered apartment window, and handed luggage to Dembe.

“Why the long face? It’s going to be lovely. This chalet was designed and built by the Norwegian architect Lars Kirka in the early 50s entirely out of a rare species of birch. The way the light hits the octagonal ceiling on the solstice!”

They had planned this getaway for months, yet the closer it drew, the more excuses Lizzie invented to cancel: paperwork deadlines, teeth cleaning, whatever she could come up with to stall. Neither of them were even remotely interested in fishing. The empty chalet beside a lake and long weekend promised to restore, or invent, some semblance of relaxation.

Climbing into the mountains, watching the dappled light through the trees, drained all of the tension from Red’s face. Lizzy continued to pout, earbuds playing a beat that bled through the spacious interior. Mildly annoyed, Red poured a scotch from the minibar and shook the ice at her. She scrimped her mouth into a look that said, “Really? In the car? Before noon?”

“And here I thought I was being generous. I invite you to a lovely home stocked with an exquisite menu. I ensure our privacy on the lake by subterfuge and a series of imaginary renters. I acquire various fishing-related accoutrements… and all to have a pouty brat ignore me and judge my predilection for a Cairne-dinough in the morning.”

An eye-roll accompanied the pout. Out the window, neat rows of grapevines broke into patches of scrub oak as they left the valley. 

“Fancy a wine tasting?” he teased as they passed a giant billboard. “No?”

Lizzy ignored him. 

She hadn’t changed a bit. Stubborn as a badger.

“Sir Thomas More.”

She yanked out one earbud. “Who?”

“The great Catholic advisor to Henry the Eighth. Ring any bells?”

“He… didn’t he rule against the secularization of the monarch?”

“And paid with his head. Yes. But that’s not what interests me. He also invented the idea of Utopia -- a no-man’s-land with trouble-free governance, an island of plentiful crops and self-sustaining community. The envy of all others.”

“And you’re mentioning this because?”

“Oh, the vineyards, the honeyed light… it has me in a philosophical mood.” The melting ice in his drink shifted.

“What else is new? Thomas More. He’s connected to a case?”

“Not precisely. The Utopia Project.”

She shoved her phone into her bag. He finally had her attention. “Never heard of it.”

“That’s because it’s a ragtag bunch of programmers and whatnot designing a perfect world. In virtual reality. I don’t profess to understanding the first thing about it, really.”

“Is this a case or a history lesson?”

“Both. Bradley Maddox, chief designer. According to the terms and conditions, you give away your right to be unplugged, as it were.”

“What’s the catch?”

“For those who prefer to abandon the garden of earthly delights for the illusion of pleasure? Nothing. But I’m not convinced that utopia is all sex dolls and waterfalls.”

Lizzie pressed her hand onto Raymond’s knee. “I never thought I would say this, but can’t this wait? I mean, the past year has been unrelenting. Here’s my chance for a break, a breather, and it’s right back to work. I want it to be normal. Families go on vacation together all the time, right?”

Raymond patted her hand lightly. “Forgive me. Understood.”


	2. The Chalet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once they arrive at the chalet, the trio bond over good food. Then a nightmare makes Lizzie believe that she's under attack.

Chapter Two: The Chalet

Raymond must have sent someone ahead of them to arrange freesias on the credenza and set a fire in the enormous river-rock fireplace. Despite her stiff back from the long drive, Lizzie grinned at the impressive entry, sheepskin lounges, and picture window framing the azure lake. Compared to the Post Office or her cramped apartment, the chalet may as well have been the Taj Mahal.

Dembe lit a candelabra and drew the curtains against the falling dark.

Reddington tossed his heavy coat and scarf onto one of the window seats. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, my dearest, and I’ll rustle up an aperitif or a wheel of gruyere?” 

Liz’s body hardly remembered how to release tension that had built up over months, even years of chasing bad guys and investigating her past. The fire crackled. Someone turned on a nocturne by Chopin and the dulcet notes blended with low voices. Dembe and Raymond soon returned with a platter of sweet chestnuts, chevre, smoked fish, and a ring of Kletsen bread. Raymond presented a bottle of Tyrolean wine as dark as blackberries. 

If she had been asked, Elizabeth would have adamantly denied that heavy wine, rich cheese and blazing fire gave her a much-needed dose of safety and security. More than weapons hidden all over her apartment. More than the map of safehouses she carried around in her head. Even more than her husband.

Her eyelids drooped despite the early hour. The first stars appeared above the line of evergreens. Dembe carried the phonograph into the great room and switched to a scratchy Dixieland. Chuckling over the choice, Raymond pushed the coffee table to the side and offered his hand to Dembe. They swung around, narrowly missing the candelabra, feet flying. In a few moments, the weight of the world lifted from Red’s shoulders while he twirled and kicked.

Not for the first time, Lizzie thought about how people only saw what they wanted to see. Reddington and Dembe’s inseparability? Explained away by a business arrangement. Reddington’s recent acquisition of Clyde Tolson’s mid-century apartment? Brushed off as harmless eccentricity, no doubt. But seeing Dembe in Raymond’s arms, candlelight softening their faces and blurring their scars, added to her feeling that, at least for a few days on the brim of a remote Alpine lake, all was right with the world.

Tired from the long day, they knocked the coals from the grate and climbed the narrow stairway to the loft floor. Dembe and Raymond’s room faced the shore with a wide balcony. Lizzie’s was tucked into the back of the chalet, burrowing into the steep slope. She skipped brushing her teeth to crawl beneath two quilts, content and wanting nothing.  
\-----  
In the pale, peach dawn, Lizzie sat up so quickly, she conked her head on the low ceiling in her sleeping alcove. Disoriented, she grabbed for her gun at the nightstand and had to settle for a cast-iron candle holder. Stumbling out of the small room, her dream spilled into the day. A car door slamming. Broken glass. Isn’t that what awoke her?

Elizabeth slid down the hallway to an open door, then cleared that room. She wanted to call out and hear a reassuring response. But her years of training took over as she slunk toward a closed door, one eye on the balcony. Three… two… kick. 

“Lizzie… You only had to ask. No need for such force.” Raymond was reclining in an enormous clawfoot bathtub, a flute of mimosa in one hand and a lit joint in the other. 

She turned her head away, abashed. “It was… an intruder. I heard the—I thought I heard a window breaking and…”

His demeanor shifted as soon as he realized her genuine fear. “I can assure you, no one knows we’re here.”

She peeked over at his body, pink and steamy. Wide shoulders. Scarred chest. The suggestion of his pendulous stomach beneath the bubbles. He wasn’t like Tom: the kind of man to lift her onto the kitchen counter and nuzzle her neck with three-day stubble. Yet, there was something about Red that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, put her finger on. Where Tom flitted through dramatic episodes of romance and betrayal, Reddington just… endured. How many times had she fled from a building or been released from jail or stumbled into her apartment to find him there, waiting?

Slowly, she lowered the hunk of metal. “I know. It’s safe. I’m sorry. I can’t take my mind off that world. Your world.”

“I might be able to distract you,” he quipped.

Lizzie took a step toward the door. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Did he mean the private ski lesson scheduled for that morning? The stack of books? Or did she sense a flirtatious tone beneath his unrelenting arrogance? She stuffed the thought into a bank deposit box and filed it away under an alias.


	3. An Open Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting late when Raymond proposes a risky deal: Liz can ask him anything she wants. Anything, except about that night.

Chapter Three: An Open Book

That evening, sunburned from hours on the slope, the three companions cozied around a stone fire pit on the balcony (a modern incursion on classic Swiss design). As always, Raymond poured fingers of an amber-colored, unpronounceable liqueur. Then, his one responsibility complete, he slouched against Dembe, who wrapped his arm around his shoulders. When one log burned down in the chill, Lizzie stacked two more. 

“This reminds me of that infernal night in Gyantse when the blizzard delayed our beloved Lobsang from piloting the prop. We weathered in the tent with the yaks. I thought an avalanche would sweep us from the face of the earth. My god. The cacophony! Howling wind. Cracking ice. I don’t know how we survived.”

Dembe smiled at the fond, if horrifying, memory. 

“Once we realized we had survived the worst of it, well. Dembe produced a satchel of psilocybin mushrooms and I found a last handful of dried noni berries. I spent the remainder of the night believing I was a yak.”

“A yak?” Lizzie rolled her eyes.

“Very peaceful creatures.”

A log broke, shooting sparks into the air. Dembe took that as his cue to kiss Raymond goodnight and make a last round of the property. Lizzie hesitated to tear herself away from the fire and crawl into the sleep nook. Perhaps sensing her ambivalence, Red poured himself another drink and cleared his throat. “How about you? Any snowed-in erotic adventures you’d care to reminisce over?” 

“Hardly. And even if I did, I wouldn’t be sharing them with you.”

He held a mouthful of bourbon for a long moment before swallowing. His eyebrows tightened. “Forgive me. This time of year. Ah. It’s almost Proustian. Leave an old man to his memories. You run along to bed.”

“An old man? C’mon.” She shoved him. “I’m not a sow-my-wild-oats kind of woman. That’s all. I guess I’m a little sensitive about your numerous… uh…”

“Rendezvous? Trysts? Liaisons? Have you ever noticed that all our words for affairs are French?”

Face flushing, Lizzie didn’t bother to hide her giggle. 

“At any rate, the night deepens. Perhaps we ought to toss some snow on the fire and retire.”

She turned to him, his eyes dark chips of obsidian. Reddington’s maddening habit of adding an inflection, a pause, gave her the sense that, although he twice suggested they say goodnight, he meant that he wanted nothing more than for her to stay.

Poking the coals with the fireiron, Elizabeth let the silence between them grow. Then she pointed at the empty space on the loveseat beside Red. He opened his sable coat so she could snuggle inside it.

“Or we can sleep here. The Milky Way will rise over that cluster of trees in an hour or so.”

“How can I have spent so much time with you and there’s so much I don’t know?” Red’s sweater tickled her cheek. 

He chuckled. “What would you like to know? One night only. I’m an open book.”

“You? An open book?” she scoffed. “Wrong metaphor. Try a vice. Or a bottomless pit.”

“You have…” he consulted his Rolex, “five minutes to decide. Midnight is upon us.”

After years of doubting her instincts and rationalizing her feelings, could she bear the truth? 

\------

January hadn’t dipped low enough to freeze the lake solid. Here and there, darker patches of water pooled. So much for ice skating. Red sipped the ’56 Macallen, seconds ticking. Lizzie’s body warmed his left side. Her scalp smelled like coconut oil and sandalwood. Deep, controlled breathing prevented his rushing toward the conclusion that he ought to throw caution to the wind. He opened his mouth, on the verge of confessing that his admiration for her intelligence and strength had been hopelessly mired in the basest of desires.

She pressed her shoulder against him, burrowing deeper into his cushy chest and stomach. “Fine. You win. But I’m going to honor the truce. I won’t ask about that night.”

“How considerate. The clock is ticking, Lizzie.”

“Okay. Do you ever wonder what would happen if you and I… if we…” A stiff gust of wind blew the flames into coals. Lizzie sat up, startled, and tried to shake it off. “Sometimes,” her voice quavered, “it feels like we’re supposed to be together.”

“I’m not a big believer in fatalism. I thought you knew that.”

“So you don’t believe things happen for a reason?”

“No. I believe that people make choices.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and squared off. “Are you prepared to make a choice? Cross a line?”


	4. Sprezzatura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once Lizzie confesses her desire, her confidence nosedives. She's expecting her knight in shining armor, but Red has other plans.

Lizzie closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned into Red. Her cold lips trembled against his mouth. 

He let go of her shoulders. “As delicious as you taste, I’m afraid you may have gotten the wrong impression of my proclivities,” the dandy said, as he cocked his head and flashed an apologetic smirk, the tall sable collar framing his face in fur.

“The wrong impression? You mean, because of Dembe?”

“No, no. I know you understand Dembe. It’s not that. As much as I adore women, I’m afraid I might disappoint you when it comes to the main course.”

Of all times, why did he persist in riddles, euphemism and double entendre? Just when she had bared her secret? Was he telling the truth? Could he, one of the most powerful people on the globe, really be worried about disappointing her?

“Disappointed how?”

“I’m under the impression that you prefer a passionate, if a bit vanilla, menu of kissing, groping, foreplay, oral sex, and vaginal intercourse. Would that be accurate?”

She ran through the list. What else would there be ‘on the menu’? “More or less.”

“I’ve acquired exacting and some would say, even warped, desires.” Reddington pulled away from her and took a handful of snow from the balustrade. When he held it over the coals, drops hissed and sent up a cloud of ash and steam.  
“Can’t you make an exception? For me? For your Lizzie?” She tried to hide the desperation in her voice, as well as surprise that he hadn’t lunged for her immediately, covered her with kisses, or confessed his own secrets.

With a jaunty half-nod by way of an answer, Reddington gestured to the bedroom. Liz followed him into the luxurious chamber. Dembe must have moved elsewhere for the night at some unnoticed signal. Red slid off his overcoat, wool bomber, and sweater, and dragged over a vintage steamer trunk decorated with stamps from Indonesia, New Zealand, Croatia, Costa Rica. It creaked loudly when he propped open the lid.

“Ever used one of these before?” He held up a black stick. “Nothing to it.”

Stepping closer, the stick resolved into a leather crop, a thin band with a handle, intended for horses. She’d never seen one in person. “Does it sting?”

“It’s a sensation. Some might say a bite. Or a call to be present.”

Against her better judgment, Lizzie stopped resisting her desire to be hurt by Reddington. Physically hurt. As if the emotional hurt hadn’t been enough. Time and time again, she had forgiven him and come back for more. Bracing herself with the giant four-poster bed, she bent over, offering her bottom.

A chuckle escaped Raymond’s throat. Liz blushed, embarrassed by her unnecessary display, and generally flustered by the entire situation. What was wrong with her?

But when Red spoke, his voice was soft, without a hint of mockery. “Oh my. Just as I had suspected. I’m not much for swatting or bruising or caning women. But being swatted?”

Liz shifted her weight from one foot to the other. 

“‘Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.’” He tossed off his vest and shirt. “Try a few swings. You might surprise yourself.” 

Half-heartedly, she swung the crop against his upper arm without any rhythm. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, basking in the incompetent slaps. Then he shook his head. “This type of dynamic might be better indulged by one with a bit less sprezzatura.”

Unclear on what he meant, she lowered the crop and took a wobbly breath. She wasn’t used to disappointing Raymond. Quite the contrary. She usually felt like all she had to do was stand there and he’d shower her with praise. Without that glow of attention, her self-doubt flared. Why couldn’t he just hungrily peel off her pants? Nibble her neck? That script, she could follow.

\----------

Red silently congratulated himself at her mild frustration. Ever the savant, how would she strive to live up to his expectations? He had to admit that he enjoyed her squirming under his scrutiny. As much as he wanted to turn over control and float in the center of pain, he was willing to temporarily act as guide, presuming she was a quick study. “Lizzie, you’re trained in combat. Breathe. Use your muscles. Send the force through the object. Follow-through. Upper arm. Outer thigh. Palm.”

The husky sound of his voice seemed to help her focus. She set aside her hoodie, took off her watch, and pulled her loose hair into a messy ponytail. Red followed her movements, trying to memorize the delicate line of her neck. 

Smacks thundered against his arms, then his legs. His head tipped back again. Lizzie stopped immediately, unable to gauge her effect. “Raymond, hey! You there?”

“If you only knew where I am,” he groaned. “I don’t suppose you’d indulge me in a little bare skin?”

Once again misunderstanding, Lizzie began unbuttoning her blouse, then looked up.

Raymond smirked. “I meant my skin.”

Gently, Lizzie pulled his undershirt off. He looked down apologetically at his sagging chest and round belly. The pants followed, but Lizzie left his old-fashioned underwear, like long johns without the legs. She reached out and ran her fingertip up one side of his face and down the other, tracing his cheek and jawline.

It was obvious how excited he had become.

“In the trunk, on the right side, you’ll find an assortment of devices to keep me from going anywhere,” Red suggested.

With a lot of instruction from her professorial masochist, she soon had him trussed up to the four posters of the bed like a Christmas turkey. When he twisted his ankles and wrists, the leather squeaked. Even though they’d gone far enough to give him a painful erection, Red expected her to storm out any moment in disgust, or burst into laughter, or threaten him with blackmail. It made it difficult to enjoy the moment. He wouldn’t even blame her for judging him as a pathetic libertine. In a dark corner of his psyche lingered the ghost of insecurity. Imagine if it got out that the concierge of crime prefers ropeburns and needle punctures and deep purple bruises? How many cartel leaders or dark web activists would give in to his demands then?

Liz’s eyes met his. Her guarded gaze. So reliably inscrutable. If she was enjoying herself, he couldn’t tell. He’d been so practiced at walling off that part of him that ached for her. Now that the wall was crumbling, he hardly dared peek over the top.


	5. Like a Glove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzie experiments with power while Red explores vulnerability.

The adrenaline that accompanied Agent Keen’s frequent pursuits didn’t compare to the way she was feeling now, looming over Reddington’s slack limbs splayed across satin sheets. In an operation, she functioned as a member of a task force with a common goal. Here in the warm room, Elizabeth tingled with energy, like she was the sole conduit between static in the air and Red’s skin. She dove again and again into the trunk, each tool and trinket fueling her confidence. Later, she’d only remember flashes. A knife blade drawn across his collarbone, leaving a faint mark without breaking the skin. A pattern of welts across his upper chest. Half-closed eyelids fluttering. The even sound of her breath mixing with his ragged panting.

Inspired, she unhooked his restraints and dragged the insensible man to a thick Turkish carpet at the foot of the bed. On his knees, arms flung back, he shivered with exertion. Shivers brought out goose bumps despite the blazing fire. His cock bobbed. Liz found a pair of slim black leather driving gloves at the very bottom of the trunk. Experimentally pulling on the right one, she found it fit as a second skin. 

Through the thin layer of leather, his erection felt stiff yet impersonal, like it had been moulded from silicone instead of flesh and blood. Lizzie perched atop a footstool within reach of the chains dangling from silver clamps on Red’s nipples so she could push him further and further until he tipped off the edge. 

Even with bruises darkening his pale skin, Red flashed her a boyish grin. She gripped him in one gloved hand and cradled his balls in the other. He always had another smokescreen to hide behind. This was her chance to dissolve his barriers. To finally find out what was behind the bluster and joie de vivre and cruelty.

\--------

Red let his breath out slowly before raising his eyes. He teetered on the verge of complete surrender. Lace trimming, black against Lizzie’s breast bone, and suddenly he wished he had the use of his hands to run down the front of her shirt, spilling buttons. “I’m yours,” he growled. “I’m entirely yours.” 

She squeezed harder. “You’ve never been mine,” she insisted as she built up a frenzied rhythm.

“No, please. Lizzie,” he choked. 

The edifice fell. Red kneeled before her, pupils wide as saucers. She looked surprised to see him there, disarmed. Then he gasped. The unlikely lovers held their gaze while a tremor moved through the man’s hips. A seismic wave strong enough to crumble mountains and pulverize granite. With a faint sigh, Red gushed onto the Turkish carpet. The man of flint and hellfire brought to his knees, overcome. 

\--------

Aftershocks continued wracking Red’s body. He had slumped against the footboard, sweat trickling down his breastbone. If she didn’t know better, Liz would have thought he’d been drugged, the way that his eyes wouldn’t focus on a single spot but wandered feverishly in their sockets. Unexpectedly concerned, she unclipped his wrist restraints, wrapped him in a quilt, and led him to an overstuffed leather chair in the corner. With a few sips of water and a moment to catch his breath, he seemed to come back to himself.

Adding logs to the fire and pouring two glasses of brandy, Liz ran out of things to occupy her hands. She didn’t know where to stand or sit. Raymond was right. He was always right. Without a familiar script, she didn’t know what to do.

Red patted the ottoman. Liz joined him, half under the blanket. His hand found her knee, her thigh. Slowly, he kneaded her tight muscles. She scooted closer, the warmth of the fire and the first few sips of alcohol dissolving the remainder of her doubt and uncertainty. She shouldn’t have been surprised that Raymond’s skills at massage would sink her into a crimson-colored haze. Yet the safer and more relaxed she felt, the more aroused she became. Even though he was only touching through her T-shirt and leggings, massaging her calves and shoulders and hands, she found herself hoping that he would slide his finger inside her waistband or squeeze her breast, searching for a nipple.

“I think this is the longest you’ve ever gone without speaking in my presence,” she taunted.

Without breaking the silence, Red gently pulled her closer to straddle his right leg. She circled her arms around his neck, laying a cheek on his shoulder, smelling applewood smoke, bergamot, and moss in a light rain. Red gripped her hips and pulled her tighter against his thigh, rocking her back and forth. Her breathing quickened.

The smell of sex and sweat overlay Red’s cologne, yet others crowded her memory. The smell of machine oil from the music box that Reddington restored for her. Starch and lavender from a lost childhood bedroom... 

Tangled in a mess of hazy memories and nebulous desires, Lizzie dug her fingernails into Red’s back, arm, frantically pressing and rubbing. She wanted to whisper something in his ear. She tried to form a cogent thought. “Red…” she began uncertainly. “Red…” was all she managed before she bucked and climaxed, drenching her pants, his thigh, and the quilt. 

As the shaking subsided, Red cleared strands of hair from her sticky forehead. She smiled weakly, confused. It had been at least a decade since she had an orgasm without taking off her clothes. Just when she was about to make a self-deprecating joke about premature ejaculation, a chasm opened in her chest. Lizzie closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway, in choking sobs.

Red continued petting her head. “Let it out. That’s alright.” 

As if the misunderstandings hadn’t been embarrassing enough, now tears? Yet she had to admit that it felt almost like the orgasm—something that had been building for a long time and had to be released. After a few minutes, her breathing returned to normal. She rested in her protector’s arms, close to sleep. With surprising strength, he lifted her and carried her across the hall to her tiny room. 

The last thing she remembered was the candle burning in the silver sconce and Red kneeling by her bed, holding her fingers to his mouth, brushing his lips softly against her skin.


	6. Back to Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

A sheet of snow covered the balcony and trees beyond. Clawing his way out of a dream about dark water, it took Raymond a moment to recall why he was naked and groggy. 

He was alone in the bed. How had Dembe known to sleep elsewhere? Some intuition?

Before he could finish putting on his robe, Dembe strolled into the room with a steaming mug. “I thought you could use some coffee. Good morning.”

An unusual sense of modesty assaulted Red. He scanned the room for wreckage of the previous night. Of course, Lizzie had emptied nearly the entire trunk. Not to mention the rumpled quilt. There was no possible way for him to act coy.

“Raymond, perhaps coffee was too weak a choice?” Dembe asked. It broke the tension.

Too cold to enjoy the morning outside, they showered, dressed, and settled in the kitchen to prepare brunch. While Dembe whisked eggs and fried potatoes, Red crushed garlic and nervously chopped herbs. The longer they waited for Liz to make an appearance, the more he paced, until finally he dried his hands and said, “Pardon me a moment,” as he disappeared upstairs.

\------

Coffee. The smell of hazelnut coffee pried open her eyes. Red set it on the nightstand. “May I sit?”

She nodded, squinting in the unexpected brightness, waiting for him to speak. To make an ultimatum. Or a declaration. To gather all of the loose ends into a tight ball and toss it on a fire. For a brief moment, she wished she could undo that decision to cross the line. Maybe then she wouldn’t be afraid to look him in the eye.

“I’m terribly sorry to inform you, but weather conditions are perfectly awful, and we will not be making an ice fishing expedition on the lake today,” he said in a jaunty tone. 

She cracked a smile. “So, the Utopia Project?”

“Yes?” Reddington replied.

Lizzie twisted around and laid her head in his lap. He smoothed her hair, stroking the short strands at her temple.

“I have utopia on my mind,” she said, closing her eyes. “I think we should get to work.”


End file.
